


Peace of Mind

by Rotpeach



Series: The Great Tumblr Rehoming of 2018 [42]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Implied Necrophilia, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Murder, Other, Stabbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-10 01:28:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17416373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rotpeach/pseuds/Rotpeach
Summary: We joked about it at a party once. Said, "Who would you call to help you bury a body?" And everybody turned to you with wry little wouldn't-that-be-funny smiles, but mine? Mine was genuine.





	Peace of Mind

It happened like this, I swear it did,

(I tell you through my tears,)

it crept up on me so slow and steady like a spider spins a fly in a silk, but gently, so it’s hard to tell the difference between being embraced and crushed to death, it swooped down like an owl after a rabbit and disappeared back into the dark twice as quickly, and there was no time to think, no time to consider the alternatives, just that horrible moment where I knew it had all gone wrong but didn’t know how to go back.

“So,” you say, and you’re smiling, I can tell even in the dark, “you killed her?”

And I’m arguing, I’m trying to tell you, saying, _you don’t get it, you’re not listening,_ but you’re shaking your head and you’re laughing, you’re _laughing_ at me.

You crouch down to get a better look at her, limp in the grass, and brush her hair out of her face in a gentle, tender gesture that makes me uncomfortable. “Pretty little thing, isn’t she?”

I don’t want to watch but I’m afraid to look away. You caress her face, stroking her closed eyes with your thumb. I bite down on my lip so hard it bleeds.

“Why’d you do it?” you ask, but you’re still touching her when you ask, you’re feeling her up now, groping blindly for the edge of her shirt and smoothing your hands up her chest, over skin that must be cooling to the same temperature as the cold air in the woods at night.

I was getting to that, I tell you, I was going to tell you right away, honestly, so I start over, I go back to the beginning to the spider metaphor because I want you to understand that I am a victim, too. I can tell you’re only half-listening because you go, “hm,” and “uh-huh,” in the middle of every sentence before I even get to the point. You squeeze her through her bra and I open my mouth to ask if you could please stop doing that but she bolts upright and _screams_.

The shrill sound echoes in the woods for all of half a second before you seize her by the throat, squeezing her windpipe until she’s writhing and clawing at your wrist. You look down at her with cold eyes and a jagged smile, and I hear her try to whimper. 

“Didn’t do a very good job of killing her,” you tell me, and with your free hand you reach into your pocket and take out something that glints in the low light of the half moon. The soft click the pocket knife makes when you take out the blade has her squirming under you all over again. You squeeze her throat harder and tears start to spill from her eyes. “Can’t half-ass this shit, you know that.”

I apologize immediately, one “sorry” blurring right into another, begging for your forgiveness, but, but I knew you’d know what to do, I say, you said I could call you, you said you’d understand.

(We joked about it a party once. Said, “who would you call to help you bury a body?” And everybody turned to you with wry little wouldn’t-that-be-funny-smiles but mine? Mine was genuine.)

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t help,” you say sweetly, flipping the knife, gingerly holding the blade between two fingers and offering me the handle. “You trust me, don’t you?”

I do, of course, I say that I do. I try to laugh, and when I can’t, I try to smile. I feel it weak and lopsided, forced. It’s true that I trust you; that’s why I asked for your help.

But I don’t like how calm you are.

“Well,” you say, “go on, then. I’ll tell you what to do.”

The knife trades hands and I almost drop it, my fingers trembling, my entire body tense and unsteady. Your warmth lingers on the handle.

“Now,” you say, your voice lower, “come here.”

I kneel beside you. Her eyes flick between us nervously and mascara smears down her cheeks. I ask you, terrified, what to do now. You put a hand on my shoulder and pull me closer. I feel your breath on my ear.

“Push the knife right there at her collarbones,” you tell me. “Ah, ah, not so hard. Just cut her shirt.”

A scream catches in her throat, held back by your fingers, when I slam the blade into her chest, and I hurriedly withdraw it an inch, making jagged, uneven cuts all the way down the front of her body, saying I’m sorry, I’m sorry, _I’m sorry_

(maybe to you, maybe to her).

You like that. I feel your fingers curl on my shoulder as you hold me tighter and you purr, “Good.” Your breathing is heavier now and I can tell you’re looking her in the eye because she’s looking back at you, and something is being said without any words being exchanged. She starts to struggle again, harder this time, and you have to sit on top of her to hold her still, and in the time it takes you to gather her flailing arms and pin them above her head with one hand, she starts screaming again. She asks us

(but it feels like it’s you more than me, she doesn’t even look at me)

why we’re doing this, tries to reason with us, begs us to stop before it goes too far.

You slap her and she chokes on a sob, falling silent when you grab her chin and lean in so close that I think you’re going to kiss her.

You whisper something I don’t hear and she cries very softly.

“Stab her here,” you tell me, pointing at her throat. She starts to beg and you let her do it.

I stammer out something that isn’t quite a protest but certainly isn’t compliance, an excuse, maybe, my conscience trying to worm its way to the surface. You reach for me, fingers wrapped around my wrist, and pull me in so hard I almost fall on you.

“You want to let her go?” you ask, smiling again. It’s a nice smile, warm and reassuring. You looked at me like that at the party, too. “You think that’s a good idea? You tried to kill her. She isn’t going to forgive you for that.”

She shakes her head and tries to say that she _will_ , says she’ll never tell a soul, she swears.

You talk over her. “People are the worst,” you say. “They’re liars. They’ll do anything to get you to do what they want, and then they’ll stab you in the back later. You can’t let them do that to you, you understand? You have to protect yourself.”

You wrap your fingers around mine and guide me to her throat again. She is begging, her eyes wide and bloodshot, words spilling so quickly from her mouth that I can hardly understand her.

“It’s easy,” you tell me. “It’s so, so easy. Just push,”

and you make us push, you start to press down at the tender skin of her throat, the muscles moving when she swallows nervously,

“—and push—”

so I do, just as you tell me, I do, I try to keep steady but I’m afraid and she’s looking at me,

“—and _push_ , and—ah, whoops,” you say, because you push too hard, you lean your weight against me and make us both fall forward, and suddenly we’re buried to the hilt in her throat, knife squelching through flesh, and she is trying to scream, blood spurting onto my face and bubbling up around the knife. She convulses, hands twisting in your grip. I want to pull away but you hold me still, fingers tightening into my shoulder so hard it hurts. You make me watch her choke as her lungs fill with blood, eyelids fluttering as she makes strangled animal noises.

“Do you feel better?” you whisper. “Got that out of your system now?”

You clutch my shoulder, harder. Your nails are digging in and drawing blood. You smile at me like we are the only people in the world as you draw closer, close enough that I feel your breath on my lips, but you stop just short of contact, you leave me there with my heart hammering in anticipation.

“You’re really trying my patience, you know?” you say kindly. “I mean, I sympathize or whatever, but you can stop shaking now. I know you’re not all that scared.”

I bite my lip, afraid to say the wrong thing, and choose not to answer. Instead, I ask you for help. I cling to you, tears running down my face, and I beg you to do something, to find somewhere to bury her, to never tell anyone and in exchange I will do anything for you.

Your beautiful smile widens into something frightening. “That’s sweet, but I don’t really want anything from you..”

She coughs one last time before she goes still beside us. You spare her one last disinterested glance before you look back at me. “Alright,” you say, “I’ll take care of this,” and I’m sobbing as I thank you. You soothe me with a smile and a finger to your lips, assuring me that this will be our secret, and we spend the night cutting her into little pieces and hiding them in the woods.

By sunrise, you’ve dropped me off at home again, lingering in my doorway as I shrink back from your tranquil smile. “Oh, I just thought of something you could do for me,” you say cheerfully. “How about you make sure the next one’s real, real cute? Cuter than this one. She wasn’t really my type.”

I swallow nervously. I tell you there won’t be another, not ever.

You grin, and even though I shrink back as you reach for me, you grab me by the shoulder and give it a painful squeeze. I interpret the gesture as a threat, but your expression is still pleasant, almost excited. I insist, through gritted teeth, that there will not be another.

You stare at me long and hard, and before you leave, you remind me, “That’s what you said about the first six.”


End file.
